All Things Beautiful
by Scarlett Wren
Summary: DracoGinny. Ginny has been hurt. She hurts herself. Draco finds her, ready to make amends, but discovers it may be too late for them. And her.


Disclaimer: All things Harry Potter belong to J.K. Rowling.

Rating: R for extreme angst, character self-cutting

All Things Beautiful- by Wren Skywalker

She sat on the floor of her room, looking around at the pink walls and frilly decorations but not really seeing anything. She knew she should feel pain, hurt, shame, or… something, anything. But she did not. She felt nothing, nothing at all, and the utter emptiness of her entire body made her want to run all the way back to him in the cold and furious snow and beg for forgiveness, plead for his love again. But she could not. She'd never been hurt like this before; all the other boys had never been serious, they'd been for fun and games. This was no game. This was too real, too horribly real to be a game.

At the base of her neck rested a thin, fragile gold chain with a fiery golden locket hanging raptly from it. She ran her fingers over the surface, afraid to open it, for she knew what was inside. "_Open this when you have to, Ginny,"_ he'd said when he'd given it to her, "_only when you have to."_ Inside the golden heart- shaped pendant lay a picture of him, and her, and a kiss that was forever burned in her memory, and she didn't want to relive it again, not now. Perhaps not ever. Looking down at the necklace, she willed it to transform itself into a Time- Turner; she longed so badly for that December night just two months ago.

It was then that they'd shared their first kiss, and the first time she'd ever known true love. It was… amazing, and it was real. It would last, she just _knew_ it would last. But she'd been wrong. A month later, a month that seemed to her to be a blissful eternity that would end in sorrow, he had a symbol burned onto his skin, a symbol that no amount of magic could ever erase from him-- or her. He'd taken the Dark Mark, and she hated him for it. She screamed at him for what felt like hours, screams she wished now she could take back. Little did she know what he would do when she finally stopped.

She had a bad temper, and on top of that, she was hurt, and afraid, and burning with an angry passion to kill him. She tried to relay all this to him in words, but it was impossible. She wanted him to hurt, too, to know how wrong he was, but he didn't say anything to her the entire time she'd been yelling at him. And afterwards, when she finally took a breath, he did speak. Quietly and sweetly he spoke, telling her he couldn't stand to hurt her, to be hurt by her; he leaned in for one last kiss before he left, but at the last second, just as she was bitterly tasting his lips, he pulled away, thinking otherwise, and left her.

Now, sitting on her floor, she wanted him so badly her body shook with dry tears. She felt as if she would take the Dark Mark herself, if that's what would make him forgive her. Ironic, she thought, that the one thing that had driven them apart may now be the only thing that would bring them back. She reached for a quill, but no ink, and closed her eyes, bringing the sharp, dry point to her wrist. She etched the pattern onto her skin, all from memory, for she had seen it on him enough to know, her eyes still closed. Droplets of crimson blood fell onto the dirty white carpet, seeping in and making permanent stains where they fell. _See,_ she wanted to shout at him, _I would bleed for you! _She rested her sore wrist on her lap and looked down at the newly carved mark that was drawn with red ink, her own red ink, and searing its hidden meaning onto her soul.

She reached up and snapped the necklace off, throwing it against her vanity mirror with a shudder before collapsing on the floor, sobbing in convulsions, shaking and crying, screaming until she'd made herself hoarse. She was beginning to feel it now, all of it: all the pain, physical and emotional, all the helplessness, everything. But now it was too late, there was nothing she could do about it all now. She wanted to sink into the carpet and stain herself upon it, along with her blood, and hide in herself.

He stood in the doorway for a moment, his eyes unbelieving and torn with shock. He dropped to his knees at her side, taking her into his arms and shaking her, calling her name desperately. He saw the mark on her arm and shuddered, running a finger over it. Surely she couldn't have… she wasn't… she couldn't be… **dead.** She just could not be… he wouldn't allow it, he simply would not allow it. He'd come too late; he was going to beg for her forgiveness, and give her the last kiss he hadn't, and tell her he loved her, tell her she was the only one… the first… But he was too late. He looked at the mark on his own arm, and wanted to cut it out. He wanted his blood to pour out of him in steady streams and mix with hers, and he wanted to lie down next to her and let go of everything, and just leave the world behind, he wanted to be with her.

Her eyes opened slowly, and she blinked a few times to clear the fog from her vision, for she had to be dreaming. He was holding her, looking down at her with tears in his eyes. _Don't cry, _she wanted to say, but she couldn't find her voice. He pressed her body closer to his, stroking her back, wanting to laugh out loud. She wasn't… she hadn't… she was **alive**.

"Ginny," he breathed, saying her name in a way that made her shiver. "Don't ever do that again, do you realize what you could've done? Sometimes you're just so stupid!" He was yelling now, but she welcomed it warmly, knowing that it was just his way of showing relief and anger at the same time. She ran a hand lightly across his face, burning a smile onto her lips.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Well, you should be, you just bloody well should be… you just…" But he couldn't go on; his words caught in his throat. He'd almost lost her, and he resolved to himself that he wouldn't waste their time together yelling. "Ginny, I love you," he said quickly, as though she would slip away at any moment.

"I know," was all she could say. He wanted to shake her, to make her say she loved him, too, but he didn't need to hear it, for he already knew. He'd know it the moment he'd seen the mark on her arm, for no one as pure and beautiful as she could will themselves to do something of that intensity unless they were hurt, and she was hurt, he could see that now.

He held her close and rocked her back and forth, whispering her name and bleeding crystalline tears, watching the snow fall outside the window, washing away the dark prints of which he'd left a trail, until he found her once more. Until he was redeemed.


End file.
